


hickeys

by hashire



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Suggestive Themes, i guess, just kinda general and moodful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 07:05:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hashire/pseuds/hashire
Summary: She sits in his lap in the late afternoons, running her fingers through his hair. He nuzzles her jaw, kisses her throat, leaves marks on her skin.





	hickeys

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write something I didn't have to think about much.

She sits in his lap in the late afternoons, running her fingers through his hair. He nuzzles her jaw, kisses her throat, leaves marks on her skin. She shivers and his arms tighten around her. She isn’t cold: the sun streaming through the windows warms her back, he, her front. She grabs his chin to pull him up for a kiss, and he always lets her.

At night, she stands in front of the mirror after she showers and traces the marks with her fingertips, ignoring his texts until she goes to bed. Once she had spent an entire evening sending messages back and forth. She stopped when Carla asked who she was talking to, winking when she followed that up with “is it someone special?”

She couldn’t explain why her heart jumped in her throat, why she felt nervous, why she was afraid to say anything. There isn’t anything forbidden about it: two teenagers feeling each other out (in more ways than one). Carla wouldn’t be upset, wouldn’t tell her that she couldn’t see him or tell her she wasn’t allowed to date. She'd want to meet him, want to talk to him, want to know him. Somehow, that's not what she wants. 

Maybe she wants to keep it a secret, something warm to hold close to her heart. She cares for Carla, for Grisha, for Eren, for all of her friends. But this feeling is new, different, enticing, and something entirely personal that she wouldn't be able to put into words if she tried. 

"A friend," she said, and set down her phone. Carla gave her another smile and nods, because of course she knew. But she doesn't ask, doesn't pursue.

She stays up late responding, until she starts dozing in class and has to tell him she needs more sleep. He doesn't seem to care about the change. If he does, he doesn't let on.

Winter cold bleeds into the less gnawing autumn chill, and she takes to wearing a scarf to cover the marks: the hickeys, Sasha calls them when the scarf slips one day. Mikasa doesn't like the word and quickly pulls the scarf back in place. Sasha pats her hand and tells her she shouldn't be ashamed. She even tugs at her collar to display her own mark.

They go to different schools: she, a private one, paid for by Grisha's doctor's salary, he the nearby public school that she would be attending if her parents were still alive. (They would have still met if her life had gone perfectly.) 

She doesn't see him every day, and the marks fade sometimes. When she sees him again, he's quick to restore them.

"Why?" she asks one day, lying in his bed with him. His mother works long hours and is never around when she is. She doesn't know what his mother does for a living; it must be difficult, unforgiving, and incredibly low paying since a few times when she's been over the heat has been turned off. He never says anything and, at first, she'd taken blankets off the couch. Then, he'd taken her to his room to curl up under the worn blankets. Then, as it got colder, they'd found a different warmth to share.

He stops stroking the lines of her collarbones, appreciating the jut of them with the pads of his fingers. "Why what?" Levi looks deep into her eyes, a longing buried somewhere deep in his. He slides his hand under the blanket, palm grazing her hip bone before settling on the flat of her stomach. 

She doesn't speak. The fingers of his other hand are tangled in hers, her neck pillowed by the crook of his arm. She pulls the hand closer to her throat, maneuvering so a fingertip traces a new mark. It's sensitive under his - their - touch. 

He stares at her for a long time: stares and stares and says nothing. She's about to offer a suggestion, something about being possessive, when he speaks, and it's nothing near what she expected.

"So you won't forget about me."


End file.
